a dewdrop over Đại Việt
[ "Xin cho con được thế lời đình chiến
Dâng thân mình nơi sóng máu trào lên
Xin cho con sang đất người trong lặng lẽ
Khẽ ngoái nhìn giang sơn bình yên"
Dâng thân mình nơi sóng máu trào lên
Xin cho con sang đất người trong lặng lẽ
Khẽ ngoái nhìn giang sơn bình yên"
- The Flob, Lầu Lâm Ba]
Silk floated across the bridge,
—, the monkey of twelve eighty-five.
To you who shone like moon on the sixteenth
yet the frailty of mankind
lust of men, charred spear.
no one could’ve saved us then.
a piece of you for the peace of all
but if you follow the invaders you too would bleed as an intruder
—or so they said, the day you were sent away.
You closed your eyes to the silver moon as it kissed your forehead
in the lamenting carnage of a lacerated palace
and the lesions of those you don’t even know
so now, the nation’s unrequited peacekeeper.
but if you follow the invaders you too would bleed as an intruder
—or so they said, the day you were sent away.
You closed your eyes to the silver moon as it kissed your forehead
in the lamenting carnage of a lacerated palace
and the lesions of those you don’t even know
so now, the nation’s unrequited peacekeeper.
benevolence
what did you see when you looked back at home
send a wind, blow
into the depth of your frozen blanket and rouge
—think you belong, still?
You know they’re not hoping you back,
so what good staining that robe of yours.
If only they cared enough
this poem could be twice as long
—but they didn’t, neither do I intend to.
How much better am I to the men
— who only shook you awake when you’re of good use
then you too with my tongue would be forgotten again.
Just like how your messages back to —
my words travel in silence and anxiety
but at least yours birthed triumph
while mine bears nothing.
Now’s the part where I force you to wake up and demand a victory out of you
then i would forget you again much like how they did.
Now’s the part where you were a match that lit the torches of Đại Việt men
then discarded, the riverbank fired
hell breaks loose the men return with smiles on their faces, you’re barely shrapnel now.
So what good would it be if you’re just a dewdrop on their pages
you stain the ink forever yet no word is willingly spilled out for you.
Have you ever wanted to be a muse?
Because the moment you stepped into the enemies’ your voice is foreign to your own people
perhaps we have something in common after all.
But you lived and you will keep living because no one cared enough to document your death for again, you’re no longer one of us.
On the day of victory their names swam back in gold
yours trampled underneath Mongolian hooves.
You died with your head, breathing Đại Việt grass it belonged
or you poisoned the emperor and vomited over your own corpse
or blood geysered over your hymen
or something like that
no one bothered talking about you anyways.
either way it’s a decrepit death
either way you’ve not a line in history
either way, guess we’ve something in common.
this poem could be twice as long
—but they didn’t, neither do I intend to.
How much better am I to the men
— who only shook you awake when you’re of good use
then you too with my tongue would be forgotten again.
Just like how your messages back to —
my words travel in silence and anxiety
but at least yours birthed triumph
while mine bears nothing.
Now’s the part where I force you to wake up and demand a victory out of you
then i would forget you again much like how they did.
Now’s the part where you were a match that lit the torches of Đại Việt men
then discarded, the riverbank fired
hell breaks loose the men return with smiles on their faces, you’re barely shrapnel now.
So what good would it be if you’re just a dewdrop on their pages
you stain the ink forever yet no word is willingly spilled out for you.
Have you ever wanted to be a muse?
Because the moment you stepped into the enemies’ your voice is foreign to your own people
perhaps we have something in common after all.
But you lived and you will keep living because no one cared enough to document your death for again, you’re no longer one of us.
On the day of victory their names swam back in gold
yours trampled underneath Mongolian hooves.
You died with your head, breathing Đại Việt grass it belonged
or you poisoned the emperor and vomited over your own corpse
or blood geysered over your hymen
or something like that
no one bothered talking about you anyways.
either way it’s a decrepit death
either way you’ve not a line in history
either way, guess we’ve something in common.
*****
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This is a poem I wrote after doing research on Princess An Tư (1267 - ?) of Ancient Vietnam. During the Second Vietnam and Mongolia War, she was sent as a peace offering to Toghan of Mongolia. She was (allegedly) a spy, making immense contribution to Vietnam's win during that war. However, she was barely written about in historical documents, so her fate after this political marriage is still very much behind the fog. It's quite difficult doing research for this piece since everything about her is so vague. The only things we know is that she's the youngest sister of Emperor Trần Thánh Tông and that she married Toghan. Anything about her, prior to or after that event, remains unknown until today.
Note: submitted this to a poetry comp and lost. Not like I've shit to lose anyways. I actually like this one a lot.
Last edit: August 14th, 2026
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